by Lynne Martin
The curious thing about us is that Lidia and I share no common language besides my rudimentary Spanish. Through the years we have learned that loving our children and grandchildren, sharing the same ideas that family comes first, and taking pleasure in feeding people are the wordless ties that bind us together. The joy of being with friends who accept us as we are and crave our company transcends the need for a common language. Seeing the gorgeous food those women produce in Lidia’s rudimentary kitchen with simple tools (not a fancy-dancy kitchen gadget to be seen) reminds me that money, position, and acquired things have little to do with the satisfaction that the bonds of family, tradition, and affection bring to people in every culture. Lidia and her family produce world-class food in a kitchen with almost no counter space, no dishwasher or garbage disposal, and no cabinets, self-closing or otherwise. Her refrigerator is elderly, and every wall plug bristles with extra adapters. On this visit we brought a big KitchenAid mixer as a gift to the family. By the next day, when we came to visit for a minute, Lidia had sewn an elaborate cover, complete with zipper, to keep the hulking appliance clean and safe, and I know it’s whipped up a hundred batches of tamale dough since it took up residence.
We left that night with two dozen tamales nestled in their plastic freezer bags and jars of the magic red sauce to slather on everything. (Of course, we managed to gobble up every one of those tamales before we left town!) But more importantly, we left with our friendship even more deeply embedded, secured by the closeness of family and the international language of food.
***
The next morning, Tim continued working on our complicated plans for the next year, beyond the first six months that we’d already finalized. We had been in Mexico for three days at this point, and he had reserved cruises from Miami to Rome in May and from Barcelona to Miami in November. These were the bookends for our projected seven months in Europe. We wanted to visit France, Italy, Spain, Portugal, and England, too, and we had already sent housing deposits for June in Paris and July and August in Florence. We searched the Internet every day for apartments in Spain and Portugal while simultaneously gathering information about European plane connections, car rentals, interim hotel stays, and all the rest of the minutiae that must be addressed. Overall, we were feeling pretty confident about our impending year abroad—until a new friend threw a curveball even Sandy Koufax would be proud of.
Judy Butcher, an American traveler whom we had recently met through mutual friends, joined us for cocktails one afternoon. We were enjoying her lively company and entertaining stories as we lounged in Sally’s fragrant summer garden. Originally from the East Coast, Judy had lived in England, France, and Alaska, and had spent time in Africa. She was an independent woman who traveled the world, and we quickly found her to be a kindred spirit. Art classes had recently lured her to San Miguel for several months.
“So then, we thought we’d spend September in Spain,” I was explaining to Judy, after divulging our plan for living internationally full-time. “Tim hasn’t spent any time in Spain and I think he’d be crazy about it. In October we could go to Portugal, which Tim likes and I haven’t seen. It’d be easy to get back to Barcelona to catch our ship home from there.”
“Sounds great, but what will you do about the Schengen Agreement?” Judy asked.
“The what?” we said simultaneously.
“The Schengen Treaty—you know, the ninety-day rule.”
Tim and I exchanged glances. What ninety-day rule? In all our careful planning, was there something we had missed? “No, we don’t know anything about it. What is it?” Tim asked after a pause, a hint of alarm in his voice.
“Oh. Well, it’s something you should probably look into before you firm up any more of your plans,” Judy explained lightly. “Most of the European countries are participants. It limits the time U.S. citizens can be in the EU to ninety days out of each one hundred eighty days. It’s a real pain because there’s no way around it except for a long-term residential visa, or maybe a student or a work visa.”
“Well, what happens if you just ignore it and tell them you didn’t know about it?” I asked, as always looking for a plan B.
“I think people do that and get away with it, but I’ve also heard that they can refuse you reentry for years if you violate the law, and if they’re really having a bad day, they can fine you or even jail you,” Judy replied seriously.
We were incredulous. This couldn’t be true! How could we possibly have missed this important information? Why would they want to kick tourists out, especially ones like us who wanted to support the local economies?
That night, computers blazed in San Miguel. To our dismay, everything Judy had told us was correct. The accord was signed in 1985, and its main objective was to allow free trade and travel for EU citizens across the borders of European countries. The rules pertaining to U.S. citizens were incontrovertible, however. The EU is trying to discourage non-EU foreigners from coming to visit and remaining to seek jobs or welfare, so they implemented a ninety-day tourist visa policy. A regular U.S. visa is good for ninety days in European countries. When that visa’s ninety days are used (not necessarily consecutively), the foreigner must leave the EU for a full ninety consecutive days before returning. It’s easy for border personnel to track one’s movements using the dates on the passport stamps. We searched for a loophole for days and consulted everyone we could think of who might have a solution. But the fact remained that unless we could get long-term visitor’s visas, we would have to get out of Europe after three months. Finally, we saw capitulation was the only course and we started altering our plans.
Great Britain, Ireland, Turkey, and Morocco aren’t part of the Schengen Agreement, meaning that time spent there does not count in the ninety-day restriction, so we included them, skipping Spain and Portugal, which are a part of it. By making arrangements to fly to Istanbul, Turkey, the same day we docked in Rome, we would waste only one of our precious ninety days on traveling. We would spend the last two weeks of May in Turkey, then our month in Paris, less than two months in Italy, and hightail it for England in late August to stop the clock; stay there for September, and live in an apartment in Marrakech, Morocco, in October. Our plan left enough time for us to fly to Barcelona for a night before sailing back to the United States, plus a couple of days to spare in case there was an unforeseen emergency.
Thanks to Judy we had avoided making arrangements for air transportation, housing, cars, and hotels, which could have cost us a bundle to cancel. As we quickly discovered, our best teachers are other travelers.
After she helped us avoid this crisis, we saw a lot of Judy in San Miguel and learned more of her story. She’d once left an influential job in the corporate world, bought a camper, and taken herself to Alaska where she had a job cooking on a boat—a radical departure from her former corporate buttoned-down life. She had lived in France with her former husband and had a daughter and her family who lived in California and a handful of stepchildren and step-families scattered around Europe. She had done volunteer work in Africa for several years, helping to build wells for rural communities. She was truly a renaissance woman.
As I mentioned, Judy had been attracted to San Miguel, like so many of its inhabitants, because of its active art scene. Choice boutique art galleries dot every street in El Centro, but home base for commercial artistic wares and professional art studios is Fábrica La Aurora, the huge white textile factory located on a few acres on the edge of town. Built in 1901 and abandoned in the 1930s, it found new purpose in 1991 as a sophisticated showroom for working artists, photographers, sculptors, jewelers, and antiques and textile dealers. We gravitated there often because of a charming restaurant and because Merry, our friend famous for her bullwhips and large canvases, and another friend, sculptress/painter Mary Rapp, maintain studios there. Mary Rapp lives on the property in a gracious apartment of heroically proportioned rooms full of art, light, and international style. “I love my commute,” she said one day as she d
ug her thumbs deep into a lump of clay. “It’s about three hundred steps and there’s very little traffic!”
The next day, we followed a pattern that had become a tradition on our trips to San Miguel over the years: visiting “the Marys” on our first Thursday in town and celebrating our return to San Miguel with a gourmet lunch and a bottle of excellent Mexican wine. As the women waved good-bye from the graceful archway of the building and Merry called, “Don’t forget—we’ll see you at the ring at 7:00 tomorrow night!” I smiled and nodded, remembering the promise we’d made to her and Ben on our first day here.
The next evening we saw the venerable gray arena for the first time. It was built of local stone, featuring entrance arches at regular intervals. As we made our way up an incline to the restaurant attached to the outside of the ring, we passed several men talking animatedly near one of the entrances. Two of them, in business attire, were clearly not toreador material, while the other two, wiry and graceful even when they were slouched against the wall watching the suited ones talk, were definitely the bullfighter type. Glancing at them as we walked by, I supposed that they were wrangling over contract details or the fate of a particular bull for a future fight night.
The wall of the bullring formed the back of the restaurant and offered a breathtaking view of San Miguel de Allende, bathed in its pink late-afternoon glow, seen through huge windows. Raul, a powerful-looking cattleman who owned the restaurant, seated us and took our drink orders. Merry, who is always drop-dead gorgeous, wore denim and lots of antique turquoise. Her accessories did not include bullwhips this time, much to our relief.
“We’re going to be testing some young bulls in the ring tonight, just to see what they’ve got,” Raul said. “You’re welcome to sit out there and I’ll have someone bring your drinks to you. You’ll enjoy it!”
I recoiled at the suggestion. The idea of men sticking sharp objects into an animal held no appeal for me. “Oh no…I don’t think so, Raul, but thank you.”
“Señora, this will just be a little cape work, nothing more. I promise there will be nothing but fun!” he exclaimed. Tim and our friends nodded in agreement. I was trapped.
He led our quartet back down the hill, and we stepped into the stands. The stone bleachers reminded me of ancient Roman arenas, like one we found in Verona where they now perform operas. (Tim had been looking into tickets for us to see Turandot and Aida there the following summer.) For me, scenes of murder, suicide, and bloody battles came to mind.
As we were seated, Raul said, “Señor Tim, if you’d like to try a pass with the bull, please feel free!”
I know my darling Tim very well and instantly caught the excited gleam in his eye, even though he tried to hide it. I looked straight ahead but said under my breath to him, “If you do this, I will divorce you. We are leaving for Argentina soon and I am not going to drag someone wearing a cast on his leg to Buenos Aires, buddy.”
Tim said nothing, but when I finally stole a glance at him, an irresistibly eager nine-year-old Tim looked back at me. I knew I’d lost the battle.
The men we had seen outside were now in the ring, the wiry ones holding colorful capes. They laughed and teased one another. One of the suited men had shed his jacket and held a baby in his arms. I was horrified to see he, too, had a cape in his free hand. Several women had draped themselves over the wall of the ring and were casually chatting. I’m sure the baby belonged to one of them.
Suddenly, a bull emerged from a chute across the arena. He ambled a few feet, paused, and surveyed the scene. Without warning, he started to run. He didn’t seem very big, but he was really fast.
He aimed at the closest man, who held his cape away from his body with one arm, loosely cradling the baby with the other. The little bull hurled his body at him and shot through the cape. Everyone laughed and clapped. Obviously, this wasn’t a big deal to the denizens of the ring, but it surprised me so much my hands shot in the air as if I were at a rock concert. Only quick thinking kept me from spilling my frosty margarita.
Just then, one of the men beckoned to Tim. He wiggled eagerly like a little boy desperate to use the bathroom. Twitching with desire, he looked at me plaintively and said, “Oh, for God’s sake, if a guy with a baby can do that, I certainly can.”
I sighed. “Oh, go on, you old fool.”
Before “old” was out of my mouth, he was halfway down the stairs.
As Tim’s feet hit the dirt, one of the matadors started kidding around with his pals, his cape dangling beside him. He turned around just in time for that little black bull to head-butt him in the groin. He staggered but remained standing. I could barely watch.
But even that mishap did not deter my hero, Señor Tim, who marched smartly around the injured fellow to meet his caped destiny. He proceeded to the man with the baby, who handed him a red cape and gave him instructions using charades. (Tim doesn’t speak Spanish, if you recall.)
I downed the rest of my margarita and signaled for another while I adjusted my camera. I knew if I didn’t record Tim’s one shot at bullfighting, our wonderful relationship could quickly go the way of the tip of Ben’s nose under Merry’s bullwhip. It would probably be the only time in his life when he’d have his moment in the bullring, and not having a record of it would break his heart. Plus, after loving him enough to let him go down there in the first place, I didn’t want to hear about my failure to record such a pivotal moment in cocktail party conversation for the rest of my life!
Señor Tim waited politely as a couple of his compadres took their turns. Finally, his instructor indicated that he should step to the center of the ring. Merry, Ben, and I rose, as I’ve seen people do at bullfights in the movies. I steadied my camera and held my breath as that little beast hurtled himself toward my husband. The bull suddenly looked a lot bigger to me. I wanted to scream for Tim to run like hell, but I gritted my teeth and clicked instead.
As the bull passed him, Señor Tim rose on his toes, arched his back gracefully, and lifted the cape. He was gorgeous—and I got the shot! Husband and marriage saved.
We left the owners and their performers to their negotiations and strolled back up the cobblestoned walkway to the restaurant. San Miguel’s lights twinkled and so did the eyes of the newly minted matador. “I’m so proud of you, honey,” I said. “You were very brave and graceful.”
Tim puffed out his chest. “Well, you know, that sucker was a lot bigger than he appeared to be from up in the stands. And he was really fast!”
I laughed. “Well, I suppose we should add ‘Retired Bullfighter’ next to ‘Clio Award-Winning Lyricist’ on your résumé.”
A couple of weeks later, as we admired the photographic evidence of his exploits between packing sessions at Sally’s house, I secretly offered up thanks that crutches or casts would not be part of the baggage we’d lug to Argentina the following week. As I’d soon find out, the adventure in Argentina would provide enough of a challenge without having a limping ex-matador for my companion.
Chapter 4
Buenos Aires
Tim perched on the edge of a cast-iron bench as he gestured to a slender blond woman sitting next to him. As usual, he was alive with excitement. As I walked down the wide stairs under the shade of a fiery bougainvillea to meet them, he leaped up and cried, “Honey, come and meet Felicia. She’s amazing, and she speaks English!”
I didn’t trust this woman for a minute and greeted his new “friend” coldly in Spanish. “Buenas tardes, Señora. Cómo está usted?” I asked suspiciously.
Felicia’s outfit of tight white jeans and a low-cut colorful blouse, which barely covered her push-up-bra-enhanced bosom, was accented by long silver rhinestone-studded earrings sparkling in the sunshine. She appeared to have lived hard for every minute of her forty-plus years and she had been sitting much too close to my husband for my taste. “Very well, thank you,” she purred in English.
“She told me that this racetrack has been here for years. You know how Argentineans love their horse
s,” Tim said with a goofy smile.
I understood his glee. We hadn’t talked with anyone who wasn’t serving food or selling us something for days. We were starving for companionship, but not THIS kind!
I said sweetly, “Honey, I see a cab over there. Excuse us, Felicia, but we have an appointment and really must get back to Buenos Aires.”
Tim glared at me but complied. As the cab doors slammed, he grumbled, “Well, that was rude. Not like you at all. She was very informative, and I was enjoying myself a lot. What’s your problem?”
“Sweetheart, she was a hooker. Why do you think she was practically in your lap? I mean, you are adorable, but it was a pretty obvious come-on.”
He did an embarrassed double take. “Well, that does it! This country has finally turned me into a lunatic. How could I have missed that?”
Within five seconds, he was laughing. And soon I was, too. We howled so loudly that the dour taxi driver glanced over his shoulder to look at us. His brief smile revealed two gold eyeteeth, which made us laugh even harder.
After he caught his breath, Tim said, “Seriously, this is the last straw. I’m calling Continental this afternoon and we’re outta here next weekend.”
Six weeks before, the ten-hour flight from Los Angeles had worn us out, and from the moment we arrived in Argentina, we never recovered. I could not understand one word of Spanish the taxi driver or anyone at the airport spoke, which added to our confusion. At first, I put it down to exhaustion. I was certain that after a little rest, my limited Spanish skills would return. Sometimes, however, reality does not always reward a positive attitude.